The Lord of Stone and Scale
by Jiaory
Summary: Once, Cregan Stark marched south to fight in the Dance of the Dragons. He returned with the greatest prize in the history of his House. Hundreds of years later, dragons soar over the lands of the North, and House Stark soared with them. And yet, with a sudden death at the heart of the capitol, the tenuous balance of power is broken - and the Dragonking turns his eyes North.
1. Chapter 1

" _When the savage Cregan Stark of Winterfell marched South with his Great Host, he and his men were deemed the 'Winter Wolves' for good reason. Indeed, with his loyal Butcher of a bannerman, Roderick Dustin riding by his side, the Northmen were alike a pack of starving wolves in the dead of Winter, tearing into the weakened yet Brave men of the South, broken and tired from the Fires of a Dragon's war._

 _These Ferals from beyond the Wildspine fell upon a burning Riverlands and starving Crownlands as a tide of crude iron swords, stone mauls and ancient rusted axes, fighting like Animals and not Honorable Men. Truly, it must have seemed a vision from the Dawn Age to witness such a barbaric force in action._

 _And then, when they rode through the hallowed Gate of the Gods into King's Landing, this cold and frozen Brute, mockery and grotesquerie of a Great Lord, demanded to be made Hand of the King!_

 _Our mighty and wise King Aegon III Targaryen was then yet a boy, and could not refuse such a demand, as ridiculous as it was, for fear of his life and the lives of his loyal lords and family, destroyed and scattered by Civil War as they already were. And so, a Northman ruled the Realm for full cycle of the Moon - the dreaded Moon of the Wolf - and a full score of men lost their heads on the edge of his Blade during it._

 _And when the Gods finally saw fit to grant us Clemency from the beastly Lord Stark, he absconded with not one, but four Royal Princesses, and a full clutch of Dragon eggs - the greatest theft in history done in the name of some Farcical Pact."_

\- Grand Maester Munkun, " _The Dance of Dragons, A True Telling",_ written in 143 AC

" _When I first laid eyes upon the visage of Lord Cregan Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North, I was struck by the honor and veracity I could nearly see emanating off the man. 'Now here', I had thought, 'was a man who could finally bring an end to this madness.'_

 _Lord Cregan put order back into place in the capitol, and he was firm but just regent, although admittedly heavy handed with the carrying out of the death sentence. A queer and rather shocking custom, that northern lords took upon themselves to be both judge and headsman during executions._

 _When the Wolf's Moon had ended, and a tentative but viable peace had been established, Lord Cregan fulfilled the terms of the now legendary Pact of Ice and Fire, the treaty written between he and the late Prince Jacaerys, who had stood as representative to his own mother Queen Rhaenyra. He took to wife both the Lady Rhaena Targaryen, and her sister Lady Baela Targaryen, in a rather grand double wedding at the godswood of the Red Keep. Lord Stark also brought the young Princess Visenya, daughter of the late Queen Rhaenyra, and the young Princess Jaehaera - despite rumours of her simple-mindedness - back to Winterfell with him as future spouses to his own young sons. And thus, Lord Cregan had done what no other House had dared and wedded the lines of both the blacks and the greens into House Stark._

 _And yet, it must be said that four noble ladies of the Royal House Targaryen was in fact, not Lord Stark's greatest prize - for he also left King's Landing with a trunk of a dozen dragon's eggs, and none could deny him this prize while he sat upon the Throne and while his army camped outside the walls of King's Landing. What lord left standing even had the men left to throw into such massacre?_

 _And even now, rumours are abound that soon, the shadow of great winged beasts will be cast upon the wintry lands beyond the Trident and the Wildspine, and that the Great House in the North shall one day have dragonriders of their own."_

\- the personal account of Grand Maester Orwyle, written 131 AC, in the aftermath of the Dance of the Dragons

" _Munkun was a pompous old fool with no eye for true historical accuracy, a burning itch in his loins to please the rather embarrassed southern lords, and an Unnecessary Overfondness for Capitalization. I prefer Orwyle myself, when reading about the Dance, but he too was rather biased, this time towards Cregan Stark rather than against - understandable, seeing as it was the Lord Stark himself who freed Orwyle from the black cells where he'd been rotting."_

\- From the notes of Marwyn the Mage, Archmaester of the Citadel

* * *

 **Daenerys**

King's Landing bustled with activity, a hive of people scurrying about, half a million beating hearts living their lives in the most populous city in Westeros, and the seat of the Targaryen dynasty.

There was a hum of energy in the air, the city practically buzzed with it. Merchants, farmers, noblemen, beggars, sellswords, gold cloaks, street urchins and a thousand more bustled and shoved and shouted and moved about their business, all filled with some form of purpose, whether honest or nefarious. Daenerys was one such soul, moving quickly along the Street of Steel, stepping around and often through the foot traffic with brisk fervor. King's Landing often reflected the state of the Realm, as if the spirit of the Seven Kingdoms could be viewed in miniature through her capitol. Under her brother's reign, Westeros had blossomed with renewed life, culture, full harvests, and of course, coin.

Even the perpetual stink of sewage in the city was much more muted these days, no doubt lessened by Rhaegar's most recent project of installing sluices that carried waste and excrement out of the city and into the river. Similarly the reek was combated by the Queen's newest fashion, encouraging the nobility and richer residents to grow gardens of magnolias and freesias and all manner of sweet-smelling flowers from their balconies. The thought of her Lannister step-sister brought a frown unto Daenerys' face, and she pulled the rough woolen hood down further on her head, making sure that none of her distinctively royal silver locks were showing. If anyone spotted and recognized her, it would be a disaster, and all that extra time she had spent taking a circular route to avoid her guards would be wasted.

Besides, Ser Oswell would already be _so_ upset, there was no need to anger him further. She giggled at the thought of her surly Kingsguard and his reaction to finding out that she had slipped away from the veritable contingent of gold cloaks that had been assigned to guard her.

The cool fresh scent of the ocean hit her, mixed with the sickly stench of rotted seafood, and Daenerys found herself arrived at her destination, the Fishmonger's Square. The Square was a frenetic open market for fishermen, peddlers, blacksmiths who overflowed from the Street of Steel and thieves who overflowed from the Muddy Way, as well Daenerys' chosen target - foreign merchants. This close to the Blackwater Rush, Fishmonger's Square also functioned as the city's primary port district, and there were always rare and unique wares flowing to and fro.

With a pouch heavy with gold dragons clutched under her peasant's cloak, Daenerys was aiming to get something particularly unique and shiny for her little niece's twelfth name-day gift. She was quite determined to outshine young Visenya's siblings and her own, who would no doubt simply shower her with some garish baubles, or worse, have a song composed in her honor.

"Silks! Silks! The finest Myrish lace and lavish cloths from distant Asshai-by-the-Shadow! Ah, beautiful young maiden, come hither!"

Daenerys startled.

"Yes! Yes, you, my lady, come and peruse my silks, the finest in all the world, wear one of these and any young lover of yours will find you irresistible, I guarantee it!" The peddler approached her, a large and fat man sweating in the rolls of silk he had hanging off his arms and in the basket strapped to his swelling belly, along with his own layers of clothings.

"I'm afraid I'm not interested, I bid you good day!" she managed to squeak, blushing with embarrassment. She hurried rushed around the large merchant, ignoring his pleas to come back and, please, examine the high quality of the weaving. Once Daenerys was sure she had lost the silk peddler, she slowed her pace and began to wander around, taking in all the sights, the sounds, the smells, the _experience_ of being out in the city. She could count on one hand the number of times she had been out alone and able really be a member of the populous, to see the city without a screen of armed and wary guardsmen or within a closed off palanquin.

Eventually, her aimless meandering brought her within sight of a richly decorated stall, with an open wooden trestle table slanted towards the passing pedestrians, straining under the weight of all the jewelry and curios heaped upon it. Daenerys recognized the man sitting behind the stall as a Tyroshi, by his motley apparel and riotous beard colors, the same style of dress shared by the two burly guards sitting nearby playing dice.

She approached the stall, drawn in by a particular piece that she could not stop staring at. It was a small silver ring, but connected by a thin golden chain to a larger silver bracelet, covered in beautiful etchings of some long-necked species of bird she had never seen before, captured with their wings outspread in flight. Set in the bracelet was a single smooth stone that shined a soft shade of green, swirled with milky white.

The merchant grinned at her, he was young for a merchant, Daenerys placed him somewhere close to twenty. His beard was distinctively forked in the Tyroshi style, one side dyed green and the other blue.

"You have a good eye, girl. That piece is from beyond the Jade Sea, crafted in Yi Ti." he tapped on the fascinating green stone set in the bracelet. "This is jade, the precious stone which gives that sea it's name." He picked it up and with a flourish, offered it to Daenerys for her inspection.

"It is beautiful." she agreed, taking the jewelry and running her fingers down the cool metal. "Why is attached to the ring like so?"

"Ah, the people of the distant land where it had come from keep to strange customs. You slip the bracelet on first, and then wear the smaller ring on your middle finger. The chain connects them like so. They call such pieces 'finger bracelets'."

"And these? The etchings, what are they of? I've never seen nor heard of animals that look like these."

The Tyroshi laughed.

"Cranes, my lady, they are called cranes. Long necked and graceful birds from the Far East."

Daenerys pulled out her pouch of gold, the distinct clink of coin hitting coin had the merchant and both of his guards snap up to stare at it like hunting hounds on a piece of juicy meat. "How much will you charge, good ser?" she asked.

The Tyroshi bowed before responding. "For you, my good lady, a mere fifty silver stags will do, the rest we shall say is already paid by having such a beauty grace my stall."

Daenerys blushed again, and clutched nervously at her pouch. "I apologize, but I do not have any silver stags."

The merchant frowned, and both guards stood up from their dice game.

"I do however, have golden dragons. Would one suffice to cover the fee for this finger bracelet?" She pulled out the single, heavy coin.

The Tyroshi grinned from ear to ear, snatching the coin out of her hand, giving it a quick bite to test before leering at the bright gold dragon. "More than enough, more than enough! You are generous, my lovely little princess."

"You have mistaken me. I am not a princess." Daenerys pulled down on her hood again for good measure.

The young merchant turned to her with a patient smile. "My dear, with the coloring of your eyes, what else could you be?"

She gasped at that, quickly thanking the man before scurrying away from the stall. Finding nowhere else to store it besides on her hand, she tucked her newly purchased gift into the one pocket sewn onto the inside of her woolen cloak, where it rested atop her heavy pouch of coins.

Stepping quickly deeper into the hubbub of the portside market, she found herself suddenly pressed into the throng of the crowd, hemmed in on all sides by people rushing every which way, many of them taller than her. Daenerys quickly realized that without being able to see any landmarks in the distance, she was hopelessly lost. A small and fatal worm of a fear began to grow in her gut, as she tried desperately to find her way back out of the Square.

Suddenly, something bumped into her side, and a hand pawed at her from underneath her cloak. Daenerys shrieked in surprise and swung her arms to slap and push the aggressor away. A rag-covered figure was already twisting away through the crowds, heading off in an unknown direction.

The young princess felt under her cloak and thankfully found her coin pouch right where she left it. But there was nothing resting on top of it.

 _Her gift!_

The thief had stolen the jade finger bracelet she was going to give to Visenya!

"Stop! Thief! A thief!" She yelled, pushing her way through the crowd in the direction she had last seen that ragged figure. The bustling mob of people barely paid her any attention, beyond a few affronted passerby that she had to shove out of her way. Daenerys managed to somehow claw her way out of the thickest part of the congregation, and she frantically scanned around to try and find her assailant.

There! A brief flash of muddy brown rags, the same lean and skinny figure that had bumped into her in the crowd. She dashed after it, one hand holding onto the edge of her hood lest it fly off her head and expose her identity even further. _Not that it helped that much in the end. Who else in this city would have purple eyes and carry bags of gold? Idiot!_

Daenerys was lithe and athletic for her age, and she ran quite fast, but she barely gained on the thief by the time the left the Fishmonger's Square for the heavily shadowed Muddy Way.

"Stop running!" she yelled out. "Give me back that bracelet!"

Her quarry raced down the dirt path and fled into an alleyway, and Daenerys, headstrong as she was, did not hesitate to follow right after.

As soon as she turned the corner something struck her on the back of head, a crack of noise and the splintering of wood ringing in her ears as she stumbled to the ground. Daenerys examined the broken piece of wood that had landed next to her hands as bright stars lighted up in her vision.

 _A plank. I have been bested by a rotted plank._

She looked forward into the alley from her kneeling position, and saw what looked to be a young boy in filthy rags clutching the silver finger bracelet tight to his chest. A voice above her, presumably belonging to the plank-swinging villain who had just hit her, hissed out in urgency.

"Jerv you idiot, you led 'er right back to us!"

The boy sniffled. "M' sorry! She was yellin' and I had ta' run!"

Daenerys turned, her head still spinning, to see that an older boy had been hiding right around the bend of the entrance to the alleyway, a broken half of a wooden plank clutched tight in his hand. He dropped it and clutched at the hilt of a thin and rusted shiv that hung from the belt loops of his patched breeches.

"We need to gut 'er now. 'Fore she rats us out to the goldies."

The younger boy straightened in panic. "Pat wait! Put th' knife down!"

Pat sneered at first, but then suddenly straightened up, this time out of not only surprise but fear, his eyes crossed as they stared down a length of razor sharp steel.

"Yes Pat, put the knife down."

Daenerys had never in her life been more happy to see the dour face of Ser Stannis Baratheon, the Kingsguard knight moving further into the alley whilst still keeping the tip of his longsword aimed at the urchin Pat's face. Pat dropped the shiv and raised both his arms, palms facing out in the universal sign of surrender.

Ser Stannis glanced over at Daenerys, scanning her for any wounds before looking back at the boy on the other end of his sword.

"It would seem, boy, that you have also struck the princess. By the King's Law that means I'll have to take both those hands."

Pat's knees knocked together in fear, and he seemed to melt until he too was kneeling upon the ground. "P-please m-m'lord. I dinnit know m-m'lord. Please."

Stannis frowned, and took another step closer. His pure white armor still shone even in the darkened alley, seeming to capture any light left available.

"Regardless, you have committed a grave crime," his voice was a low grumble.

Daenerys immediately stood upright, the pain in the back of her head momentarily forgotten as she threw back her hood and strode up between the Stag Knight and the quivering street urchin.

Stannis Baratheon took his vows very severely, she knew, and he would see any law obeyed to the very letter, punishment included. If she did not act now than the poor boy would soon be a cripple.

"Ser Stannis, I bid you to stand down. I am not hurt by his accident."

Stannis' cold blue eyes bored into her. "Truly, you are unhurt? Even with that great lump forming on your head?"

Daenerys clenched her jaw and set her stance, refusing to drop her eyes away from his glare. "I am a Dragon, Ser, and not so easily wounded."

Stannis held her gaze a moment longer before nodding and sheathing his sword. He looked at the terrified boy kneeling on the ground and scowled.

"You're quite a lucky boy, Pat. You should thank the Seven for the princess Daenerys' kindness, which is only matched by the resilience of her skull."

Daenerys did not respond. Stannis looked at her and grunted, whether in annoyance or approval she could not determine.

"I'll await you on the street, my lady." he muttered, before bowing and walking out of the alley. Daenerys turned to follow, but felt a small tug on the sleeve of her stitched cotton dress.

She turned and saw the younger boy, Jerv, holding out her jade finger bracelet.

"Thank you." he whispered, eyes welling up with tears. "Sorry I stole' from you m'lady. And Pat hit you."

Daenerys smiled at him. "It is fine. Truly, I am unhurt. And thank you, this gift will make my niece a very happy girl. And now you have provided me an adventurous story to tell her of it's origin - the time I chased Jerv the Fleet-footed through the alleyways of King's Landing to earn it!"

The child smiled back at her, blinking away his tears.

"Here," she continued. "Take these." Daenerys reached into her pouch and took out a handful of golden dragons, placing them in the young boy's palm. "Use one to feed you and your brother, and then one more each to buy an apprenticeship with one of those blacksmiths. The rest is yours to use as you see fit."

The boy's eyes widened at the sight of so much glittering gold.

"Keep it well hidden." She laughed and then smiled at him again before turning around and striding out onto the dirt street of the Muddy Way. Ser Stannis and his dour face greeted her on the streetside. His white Kingsguard cloak remained immaculate, the alabaster cloth seeming to scorn and repulse the dirt and filth that he was standing in.

"Princess Daenerys, you have caused no end of worry for my brother knights, Ser Oswell in particular. Slipping away by your lonesome like you have done is dangerous."

"Ser Stannis," she rebuked, "you have no right to say such of myself nor my sworn shield, not when you yourself should be at the side of my brother Viserys."

"The prince Viserys is safe in the royal apartments, within Maegor's Holdfast, where the King has ordered his entire family to be gathered _hours ago_. The entirety of the Red Keep was in uproar when you were found to be missing, and all of the Kingsguard save for the Lord Commander are out in the city searching for you."

Daenerys felt the blood drain from her face.

"What happened. Tell me."

The Stag Knight's grim visage grew even darker.

"Sunfyre the Golden is dead. Your great-uncle Aemon was struck down by stroke the same moment the dragon succumbed. He lies now unconscious with the King and the royal family beside him."

Horror and shock vied for control of her body. Sunfyre, the greatest dragon alive, the strongest symbol of Targaryen power in her age, was gone. Uncle Aemon struck down.

"No." she whispered.

Stannis grabbed her arm, not painfully but firmly, and began to march her up the hill towards the Red Keep.

"We must return now, and ready ourselves for trouble, my lady. For now, House Targaryen has only one dragonlord left."

* * *

 **Jon**

Skagos, the Isle of Stone and Scale, was always good to Jon. The island was not only his childhood home, but the home of his spirit. Nowhere else was the sea air as clean and sharp than it's shores, nowhere else could he find the calm and solitude that he often starved for than it's mountainous crags. And nowhere else were there _dragons_.

Jon glowered. He supposed that last line was not wholly true. The very reason for his black mood was because there _were_ dragons elsewhere, dragons of the south. The Targaryen Dragonking and his brood, who had sent ominous commands on raven-wing to Winterfell, the center of power in the North and the seat of House Stark.

He ran one of his hands over his head, brushing back the thick white hair that was a rare and legendary trait of his bloodline. His grey eyes, inherited from the Winter Kings of old, scanned over the thick evergreen forests and frothing green seas surrounding the Isle.

Even the harsh beauty of Skagos could not calm his unease at the letter that his uncle Lord Eddard had sent to him. Jon pulled the offending piece of parchment out from his thick furs, reading it over once again to confirm that his eyes did not lie to him, though he knew that there could be no mistake.

Lord Stark had commanded him to go south to King's Landing.

Jon cursed and stuffed the damned letter back into the pocket of his leather jerkin, bundling the fur cloak up to ward against the cold. Even during the long summers, Skagos, much like the rest of the North, never really felt the touch of warmth.

The young man strode up the hillside towards Kingshouse, the small stone fort that was barely the size of Winterfell's inner keep. Yet, Skagos didn't need any large castle or sturdy walls to keep out invaders. The Isle's true defense was the great beasts that nested in her mountains and soared above her skies.

As Jon made his way closer to Kingshouse, a large white wolf silently bounded over, deftly leaping up the slope of patchy brush and scree.

"Ghost." Jon greeted his longtime companion.

The white fur around the direwolf's muzzle was drenched red with blood, for Ghost had just returned from stalking a nearby pack of wild unicorn, and the great wolf had obviously seen success from his hunt.

Ghost greeted Jon back by snuffling at his sleeve, and Jon made a noise of distaste as some of the unicorn blood rubbed onto his furs. He scratched behind the direwolf's ears, needing to lift his arm to do so, and then slapped at the wolf's flank as it dashed past him up the hill into the stone fort. Their third brother however, was nowhere to be seen.

 _Probably knows that I am itching to fly. The lazy beast is avoiding me._

He reached the top of the hill and walked through the small brass gate into Kingshouse. There were no guards, for not many people lived on Skagos and everyone knew of each other, and any strangers fearless enough, or stupid enough, to land on the island would have been noticed immediately. As if to punctuate the point of his thought, a dragon far above him roared, a long and keening screech that the great animals often did to greet one another.

The main hall of the fort held much of the old design, when it was once home to House Magnar of the Skagossons who had first lived here. Long oaken feasting tables lined the room, enough to seat half a thousand men, although at this time of day it was empty. Large open windows let in the sunlight, and rows of bronze braziers that would be set alight during the dark were placed between the tables.

Kingshouse had a rich and rather bloody history before the time of Cregan Stark and his dragons, and remnants of it's past glories still hung from the ceiling - old and tattered banners of houses long crushed into dust and forgotten, symbols of people who had been trampled beneath the feet of the old stoneborn and the passing of time alike.

At the other end of the feasting hall, an elaborately carved and ancient longship had been repurposed into a raised platform, in which the lord and his party could sit above all others in the Great Hall and host great gatherings. On a row of iron spikes jutting out from the wall above the lord's table hung a score of dusty and twisted circlets, barely recognizable as crowns. Many were rusted and pitted iron, some crafted of stone, a few of bronze or dragonglass, and one or two of unknown and unrecognizable materials. Ancient crowns of long-dead kings, stolen by the original inhabitants of Kingshouse in the days where they were feared raiders and pirates all along the eastern coast of Westeros - and even across the Narrow Sea.

Jon made his way around the tables, noting that one of the bronze braziers still smoldered with a few leftover coals. He stepped up onto the makeshift wooden ramp that cut into the belly of the old stoneborn longship, and found Ghost curled up next to the feet of the large man seated and snoring behind the lord's table, reams of parchments scattered around him.

Jon picked up the half-full cup of mead that laid forgotten on the table and upended the contents onto the man across the table. Tormund Giantsbane awoke with a sputtering roar, his large fists swinging about and missing Jon completely. Eventually his flailing stopped and he blinked mead away from his bloodshot eyes, remnants of the drink dripping from his bushy gray beard.

"That was a waste of good mead, boy." The chieftain's voice sounded out like a storm breaking on rocks.

"You were sleeping on the table again, Tormund." Jon snatched up the papers that lay around them, ignoring the older man's noise of indignation.

Jon perused the documents, most written in the common tongue and others covered with the runic etchings of written Old Tongue. "You were working through the night again, too. You've been pushing yourself too hard, old friend."

"Oh-ho! So it's 'old friend' now, aye? Bah! You're still a few decades too young to call me 'old friend' boy, not when you're still dripping wet behind your ears. And no friend of mine spills mead on sleeping men." Tormund grumbled, whilst reaching out and pulling a plate of what must be day old and cold chicken's legs closer to him, biting into one while tossing a few more under the table for Ghost.

"Don't you go fattening him up even more, he's just eaten."

"Beast could always use summore' meat on him, with any luck he'll be as big as my son someday. Har!"

Jon was no longer paying as much attention to the conversation, as something among the many reports that graced Tormund's table had distracted him.

"Stolen sheep? What's this one about?" He slid it over the table to the large man, finger tapping on the specific line that caught his eye. Any disappearance of animals near Skagos was always a concern for them, as more often than not it was wayward dragons that were the culprits, those that were either too young to understand they were to avoid human settlements or too hungry to care. The Isle of Stone and Scale was responsible for every dragon that hatched within it's mountains, which was nearly every dragon north of the Wildspine. That responsibility extended to making sure none of their dragons, wild or otherwise, burned any towns or stole any livestock. Or ate any people.

It was best to nip these matter at the bud, which was why a constant flow of dragon sightings and similar reports were always headed to Kingshouse - and the table of the Lord of Skagos.

Tormund looked over at the page, and hummed, a low and grumbling noise from deep within his throat. "I remember this one, sort-of. Some fucking goatherd from the Grey Cliffs. Karstark land. Been complainin' about his flock being 'disturbed'- " Tormund scoffed, "for a good while now. Says here that this time when he had took his livestock out to graze at dawn, three o' em got burned and eaten, another two carried off." The big chieftain frowned. "Well, definitely a dragon, and this close to us, definitely one o' ours." Tormund looked up at him with a puzzled expression. "Strange, eh? We don't have any younglings flying about right now, the newest beast is yer little cousin's, and that one's still a wee hatchling."

Jon had a thoughtful look on his face, his head held at a slight tilt as he ran through some unseen list within his mind. He paced around in front of the table as he thought. "Happened right at dawn, you say? And on the Grey Cliffs right by the sea…"

The young man turned back to Tormund. "Seasinger."

"The old she-dragon? I know of her, with the grey and green patterns. Why d'you say? That one's never been much an issue before."

"We call her Seasinger for a reason." Jon grinned. "She likes to fly out every day at dawn to catch the morning tide, and roars at the ocean. 'Sings to the sea' was how grandfather put it."

Tormund chuckled. "I'll have a few men deliver coin 'nough to buy new sheep to the herder. And warn the poor fucker off from going near the cliffs at dawn. For all the headaches you bring me lad, I wouldn't know what to do without you here."

He noticed the immediate frown that graced Jon's features.

"What's got your balls, Jon?"

"I won't be here anymore, soon." He pulled out Lord Eddard's letter and gave it to Tormund. He read it over, one hand stroking the bristly gray hairs of his long beard.

"Aye, this is shite news. Going south, with the little lord and lady no less." Tormund turned and spat. "Can't imagine heading down where the lands are _warmer_ and the air stinks even more of pig shit than here."

Jon took affront to that. "Skagos and Winterfell both are as clean as they are cold."

"See, lad, that's exactly my point. I forget that you haven't spent enough time in the True North." Tormund heaved himself up from the table, letting out a loud belch that startled even Ghost. "Well, good luck then, my boy. Come back and visit when ye can."

"What, that's it? What about you? How are you going to handle all of, all of this!" Jon guestered to all the reports and various issues scattered about them on parchment. "You're barely managing as is with me here, helping you!"

"Watch yourself, boy." Tormund growled.

Jon sighed. "I didn't mean that. I am just - worried. It would be hard for you to take care of the whole Isle by yourself. You do all of the work here, you command all of the men on the island, you protect all of the dragons." He looked the taller man in the eye. " _You_ should be the Lord of Skagos, you practically carry out all of the duties already."

The Giantsbane's face seemed to softened ever so slightly, if it were possible for stone to soften. "Broad as my shoulders are, lad, they are not so strong as to carry the weight of the dragons. That burden falls upon those who share their blood - your family." He smiled and then laughed. "Besides, I've too much Free Folk blood running in my veins to ever take a kneeler title. _Lord Tormund,"_ he spoke in a high falsetto. "Har!"

Jon looked away. "Suppose I don't want to go. This is the only place I've ever felt to be a home for me. I too am a dragon of Skagos, I belong here."

Tormund walked around the high table, the old oak of the longship creaking beneath each step. He rested one massive hand on the young man's shoulder.

"You should talk to your grandfather, Jon. He's up on High Rock fishing again."

"Aye, I suppose I might as well squeeze one last piece of wisdom out of him before I go."

Jon whistled at Ghost, who's ears perked up at the sound as he quietly padded over.

"I'll see you again back here for evening feast, lad."

Jon looked back and nodded at Tormund, before leaving. It was time to meet with the Lord of Stone and Scale, his grandfather Rickard Stark.

And the only way to reach him was by air.

* * *

 **A/N:** Looking for beta readers, for both this work and for King Snow until it's completion. Please send me a PM if interested!


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:** Rated M for a reason.

* * *

 **Jon**

He was waiting on the Pebbletide, the rocky eastern shore of Skagos, overlooking the thin strait running into the Bay of Seals, when someone disturbed him.

"Winters-blood."

Jon turned to face the voice that called out to him. _Winters-blood_ , he thought. _The curse and blessing alike of my House._ "Ygritte." he spoke, a calm greeting to the fiery red-haired girl.

She smiled at him, and Jon felt something drop inside of his stomach, despite what he told himself about past feelings remaining in the past. Yet, he could not deny that for all of Ygritte's crooked teeth and slightly wide-set of her blue eyes, she was still beautiful to him.

"Did you need something?" Jon spoke aloud whilst he cursed himself inwardly. She knew, he could tell. Ygritte only smiles that hunter's grin when she's caught sight of fat prey and was homing in for the kill.

Like now, for example.

"Oh, not much, Jon Snow. I had just heard a little rumor - one about you leaving us."

Jon cursed again, this time aloud. Of course he couldn't trust Tormund to keep his fat mouth shut, or at least not to Ygritte, who the big man treasured like a daughter.

He sighed. There was no point in attempting to lie about it. "I am leaving. I don't wish to, but I must obey the commands of my uncle Lord Stark."

The girl sneered. "You still bow and scrape too much Jon Snow. I would've thought you grown out o' being a kneeler boy by now." He appreciated that she still called him Jon _Snow_ , and not Jon Stark, or young Lord Stark. They had met before he was legitimized, before he had come to live at Skagos, before he had found the white egg, and that simple bastard's name was an oddly comforting anchor to the past.

"Lord Stark is Dragonlord in the North, and rides on Jokull Winters-bite. You stand before a dragon large enough to swallow a bull moose and then come back and tell me to defy him." he exclaimed.

Ygritte grew quiet, but it was not because of his intimidation. Jon knew her better than that. She looked down at the their feet.

"So you will be leaving us then."

"Aye."

"For good?"

"I don't know. I hope not, but I don't know how long I'll have to stay south."

"I'll miss you."

"Ygritte- " He reached his hand out to hold hers. She quickly took a step back, and Jon let his hand fall pathetically back to his side. The fiery-haired girl smiled sadly at him.

"No, Jon. We are done now. We were good, aye, I admit it. I loved you, and I know you loved me, but our business is done." She looked away from him. "And now you will leave, you'll fly away from here and start a fancy new life down south. It'll be good for you to have a fresh start."

Jon felt a tugging within his chest, but found himself more concerned at just how _little_ he was pained from Ygritte's words, when once, her dismissal would have destroyed him. Things have changed, greatly. The moment hung between them, a silence as short as a breath and still immeasurably long. Then, the beautiful young woman turned to face him, and the soft, sad smile had been replaced once again by the cat's grin she had worn before.

"We might be done now, Jon Snow, but there's still unfinished business you've got with another that you must finish up before you leave."

Jon felt a heat creeping up from his neck, which he knew was starting to flush a shade of embarrassment red.

"No," he began to retort.

"Yes!" she cut him off, grabbing his arm.

Abruptly, a distant screech of greeting rang out from somewhere beyond the headlands, and Jon heaved a sigh of relief at his partner's good timing. He shook off Ygritte's grip and immediately dashed away down the shoreline.

"Jon!" she screamed. "Don't you dare, you yellow-bellied coward!" Jon could her the pounding of her feet on the pebbly beach as she chased after him.

The heavy whoosh of beating wings could be heard from above, and then a dragon's roar filled the air, as Amattugr came gliding over the low mountains behind them, diving low and sounding another enthusiastic greeting at the humans below.

The young dragon's ivory scales, nearly the same pure white as Jon's long hair, reflected the few weak beams of sunlight that peaked through the cloud cover, and his great reptilian eyes - a shade of cerulean exactly like that of the sea, locked onto his rider.

Amattugr went straight from flight to canter, neatly folding his wings as his forelegs touched onto the rough sand. The dragon roared again, in joy, as his four powerful limbs thumped against the ground, happy to be playing this new game. At the behest of his human partner, the dragon slowed his gait just enough for Jon to leap up and grab onto a wing membrane, swinging his whole body up and onto the white dragon's scaly back.

Immediately, Amattugr reared up and spread his forelimbs wide again, the massive wings beating against the ground. His pushed forward on his back talons alone, the thick hind legs bearing the entire weight of the dragon's body, pounding on the surf once, twice, thrice - and then he was airborne, climbing higher with every great flap of dragon-wing, once more soaring into the sky.

Jon gripped tight onto one of the many bony spines that lined his dragon's back. Flying without a saddle was always dangerous, even if he wasn't going to be in the air for long. He shifted his body to turn and look behind him, where he saw a red-haired figure jumping and waving her fist at him. He barely caught her yelling on the wind.

"- better talk to her- stupi- -cking idiot!"

In the air, Jon felt at peace. Only the peaks of the highest summits in Skagos could match the solitude of the open skies. Here, the air was crisp and fresh and the cold was barely a bother, held back by the radiant heat of Amattugr's scales.

The dragon was happy too, Jon could feel it. He had been feeding on some fish and few seals, but had been more than willing to take a temporary leave from hunting to ferry Jon over the strait and further east. Two tiny islands soon appeared below them, sandwiched between the main body of Skagos and the smaller chain of mountains jutting out from the ocean to the east, known as the Seastone Jaws - a favored nesting place for the dragons.

Of the two tiny islands, really more just large rocks, one was taller and narrower and the other was wider and much more squat. The stoneborn had named them aptly, High Rock and Low Rock. Amattugr descended upon High Rock, and though the dragon was still a young one, he barely fit on the mostly flat surface of the islet. Jon swiftly dismounted, patting the white dragon's snout before approaching the lonesome figure sitting at the edge of the High Rock, who had not bothered to turn around. Behind them, the dragon pushed off the small island with mighty heave from all four limbs, his wings gusting away, a great effort expelled to lift himself straight up until he caught winds strong enough to let him glide overhead.

"Grandfather." he called out.

Lord Rickard Stark, Dragonlord of the Isle of Stone and Scale, Lord of Skagos, turned and smiled at his grandson and heir. "Jon." he greeted. The old man was wrinkled and stooped with age, his dark purple eyes rheumy with cataracts, his hair brittle and thin - long locks that had once been a rich dark brown now a pale ash-gray. And yet, his voice still remained strong and sure, with perhaps only a slight hoarseness, owing to a lifetime of war and command.

"Come and sit beside me, Jon." the old lord patted the smooth rock by his side. "You've come at a good time, I've just caught myself a nice fat salmon."

Jon lowered himself carefully next to his grandfather, letting his legs dangle over the edge like the old man did. Lord Rickard held a simple carved wooden rod in his liver-spotted hands, the line running out far below them into the waters of the strait.

Both of them watched as Amattugr sailed by on his great white wings, gliding just over the waters of the ocean. The young dragon called out towards the Jaws, and a few answering roars echoed from across the strait. Rickard grinned.

"He's a beautiful one. And growing so much bigger every day. You did very well in hatching him." he turned his grin on Jon. "I am proud of you, child."

Jon swelled with happiness and pride, before quickly subduing himself. _Don't think about it, not yet._

"Thank you, my lord." he bowed his head. Rickard slapped him on the back.

"Don't get all uppity and formal with me, child. Grandfather! Call me Grandfather!"

Amattugr chose that moment to dive into the sea with a great splash, resurfacing a moment later with a great mouthful of wriggling fish. The old man laughed at the sight, waving his fishing pole around in delight.

"I don't know why I even bother, when the dragons can outdo my whole day's catch in a mere few minutes!" He let out the long sigh, the sound of a satisfied man releasing his exuberance into the world. "But I'm sure you didn't come all the way out here just to watch an old man fail at fishing. What ails you, my boy?"

Jon hesitated. He had to be careful. "I've received a summons, from my uncle Eddard. He bids me to travel to White Harbor and accompany my younger cousins on their… travels."

"Young Brandon and little Arya, yes? You love them both dearly, I know that much is true." Rickard frowned. "Does the thought of obeying the commands of your more distant uncle chafe at you? Or perhaps you fear to to once again be placed under the cold glares of Lady Catelyn?"

Jon nodded uneasily. The squirming fear of going back to how life was like at Winterfell roiled around inside his gut. Grandfather had always been able to read him like an open book.

"I don't wish to leave Skagos at all, either. This is my home."

The old lord pulled up the line from his fishing rod and laid both rod and hook down next to him.

"There is no shame in longing for your childhood home, nor in the fear of your childhood demons, even if it pains me to know that they are my son and his wife. Yet, you must remember Jon. You are a boy no longer, but a true northern dragon, and you have been for some time now." He turned his reassuring gaze onto Jon. "You remind me of your mother in so many ways. The Realm knew of Lyanna the courageous and fearlessly wild girl, but not many knew that she would often come crying to her mother and father during stormy nights, even as young woman, or that she could not bring herself to slay small woodland creatures when hunting. Aye, she hid her weaknesses well and kept them bottled deep inside, just like you."

Jon heaved a long breath. "You are right, grandfather. I must strive to be more truthful with myself." He let out a noise of frustration. "I am sure King Rhaegar must be engaging in some kind of plot, calling Bran and Arya to the capital right after the both of them had hatched new dragons, and I am in many ways glad to take up the role as their protector, but I still cannot help but suspect that the Lady Catelyn's hand is somewhere in this, pushing me south and away from my true home here on the Isle."

Rickard laughed again at that. "I fear your suspicions may indeed have some grounds to them. Catelyn has always been jealous of your status over her own children, after you hatched your Amattugr and flew him before any of her own brood could. My Eddard certainly did not help much by legitimizing you and raising you to the heir of the Isle of Stone and Scale. But I would not worry. Now that she has two riders as children, a boy and a girl, she will not feel herself so insecure anymore."

"We don't know if they will be riders yet."

Lord Rickard turned his purple eyes to meet Jon's grey ones.

"They will. They are Starks, and dragons of the north. Those children will be the dragonlords of tomorrow, alongside their older cousin."

Rickard suddenly tilted his head quizzically, an expression of puzzlement coming over his face.

"Jon, just now, you said _King_ Rhaegar. Rhaegar is the second prince, not the king."

Jon hurried to correct himself. "I misspoke, grandfather, a slip of the tongue. I had meant to say _Prince_ Rhaegar." _Shit. Shit. You fucking fool, Jon. You utter fucking fool._

The old man smiled an odd half-smile. "No, no, you very rarely make such mistakes, and besides, I could hear that you were telling a truth. But that cannot be, Aerys is the current King. And even if he were somehow gone, may the gods be so kind, the crown prince is Maegor, the firstborn son." Rickard frowned, deeply. "Wait. No. Aerys _is_ dead. Maegor is too. How did I forget? The burnings. Everyone knew when it had happened. The Kingdoms had cried out in horror. How did I forget the burnings?"

"Grandfather- "

Rickard held up his hand to silence him. "Give me just a bit of silence, Jon." His wrinkled face flickered through a canvas of expressions. "Something is happening. I'm…remembering something."

"Grandfather, you need to- "

The old lord turned and snarled at him, purple eyes burning with sudden fury.

"I said, _silence!_ "

Jon paled and backed away. Rickard jumped up with sudden energy, a vigour filling him that belied his elderly state.

"What are we doing here! We must be going, and now! Aerys has murdered his own son in wildfire, and now Rhaegar will be on the warpath." Rickard picked up his fishing pole and tucked it into his belt like a sword. "Saddle the dragons, we shall have to fly fast to reach Dragonstone in time to offer our support for the true King. We cannot leave Rhaegar to face the Bloodwyrms alone. Let us go and rescue your friend together, my son." He turned to face Jon and then stopped in surprise.

"Who are you?! Where is my son, Brandon?" yelled the old man.

"Grandfather, it's me, it's your grandson, Jon." he pleaded, tears beading in his eyes, reaching out to the flustered lord. Rickard slapped his hands away.

"I don't know you. Where is Brandon? Answer me! Brandon?! Brandon come to me, come to your father!" Rickard began to stagger around, Jon quickly leapt forwards to catch him before he could fall onto the stone. The old man let out a piercing scream, a dragon's roar let loose from the throat of a man, and Amattugr along with the other dragons nesting in the Seastone Jaw roared in rage and pain with him.

"Stop, grandfather! Stop right now!" Jon pulled his grandfather close, bringing about his powerful gift to counter Rickard's own, and forcibly calmed the frenzied dragons.

"Brandon.." muttered the old lord, "Brandon. He's not here. We already flew south. The...the war. We fought in Rhaegar's Dance." Tears began to flow down Rickard's cheeks. "The wildfire," he whispered. "It burnt us, even in the skies. The dragons fell. Brandon fell."

His voice became shakier and shakier, losing it's previous strength and clarity, becoming the voice of a weakened old man. "We were going to fish together. Fishing on the High Rock. I was going to teach him to catch salmon."

The old man closed his eyes as great sobs racked his thin and aged body. "He was just a boy. Just seven-and-ten, just a boy." Jon cradled his grandfather as the man cried on the stone surface of the High Rock.

Rickard opened his rheumy eyes and looked up at Jon. There was wonder and awe shining in the old man's eyes, even through all the cataracts. He reached a single gnarled hand up and lightly touched Jon's long white hair.

"My son." he gasped. "My Brandon, you've returned to me."

"Yes, yes I'm back." Jon forced a smile through his tears, his heart breaking in two, as it did every time his grandfather reached this stage of his delusion. "I've come back, father."

Rickard smiled. "My beautiful son. Your hair is the sign, white as snow. Your eyes are the sign, grey as steel." He then reached up and clasped Jon's arm, the strength surprising coming from such a thin arm.

"You are the legacy of Cregan Stark, as much as his dragons were, if not more. You are the latest of a long line of power, my son, and you will be the greatest of them."

He pulled himself up, closer, until he was peering deep into Jon's eyes with his own deep purple orbs.

"You are a Song of Ice and Fire, you are _Winters-blood_."

The old Stark lord then closed his eyes, and fell into merciful unconsciousness. Jon bundled the sleeping old man up, calling out to Amattugr to take them home to Kingshouse.

* * *

Much later in the day, after Jon had seen his grandfather taken care of and put back into the bed within the lord's solar, he sat on nursing a horn of spiced wine, watching the revelry of the evening feast in the Great Hall. Men and women - most of them young and in their prime, sang, drank, and danced to celebrate the end of another day of hard work. Many would only stay on for a few more years yet, but newer generations were always traveling to Skagos to serve on the Dragon-isle. It took a strong body and great bravery to do the tough job of working with dragons, but there was never a shortage of loyal volunteers who came to their shores seeking the honor of serving the home of the northern dragons.

Normally, Jon would be right there among his fellow northmen and future subjects, singing just as bawdily and dancing away with the only people in the only place he considered home. Tonight, however, he merely sat on a log bench and watched from the corner of the hall, brooding over his drink, as he usually did on days that he went to see his grandfather.

"You are quite accomplished at that." a woman's rich tones filled his ears.

Jon looked up from his drink to see long legs clad in white woolen breeches, following them up to a white bearskin cloak fastened over a worked leather tunic, and met pale blue-grey eyes framed by long and luscious honey-blonde hair.

"At what, exactly?"

Val cocked her head at him, placing both hands her shapely hips as she regarded his stare. "Sitting there, like a useless lump of stool. Really darkens this corner of the feast."

Jon took a long sip of his drink, feeling the warmth of the liquid spread down his throat and through his chest, before settling in his belly. He considered the wine, wanting to down it all, but decided against so and merely handed it over to a passing drunken reveler.

Val shifted the weight of her body from one leg to the other, her waist moving across his vision almost hypnotically, crossing her arms as she did so. She frowned at first, but then smirked when she saw the way that his eyes tracked her movement.

"I do like it when I catch you making those wolf's eyes at me, Stark. And I hear from the girls that there's been more than a few times that I don't catch you."

Jon looked up from to meet her eyes again, feeling a swelling embarrassment at her provocation, but hiding it well. His grey eyes, normally a shining steel color, were dark almost to black in the shadows of the feast hall.

"It is difficult to be bound to beasts, my lady. Their blood runs hot when mine does, aye, but the same is true in reverse."

Val knocked him in the shoulder with a fist, and Jon knew it was a playful one, but it still hurt like all hells. The woman was all taunt muscle despite the feminine curves of her body. She walked closer and sat down to the left of him, watching the small crowd of northerners feast and celebrate. Tormund sat at his customary place atop the upraised longship-table, laughing uproariously, one arm around a pretty brown-haired woman and and the other around his current lover, who looked ready to gut him with her knife.

Val tilted her head towards her fool chieftain and rolled her eyes, prompting a small smile from brooding young man. She answered with a grin so wide and lovely that Jon's heart started to hammer in his chest, and the swore the edges of his vision turned pink for just a moment.

"He threw this one for you, y'know." she spoke, nodding towards Tormund. "That ass of a man is all soft on the inside, and he'll miss you the most. Probably cry and mope around for weeks after you leave." she snorted.

Jon watched Val as she gathered up all of her dark honey-blonde hair, so long that it draped across her lap when she sat, as the young woman began weaving it into a single long braid, her fingers deftly moving the strands of hair with a practiced quickness and ease.

"I know. I've spoken to him, and Ygritte. And my grandfather."

"Then why've you been avoiding _me_ , Stark?" she turned to glare at him, her eyes glittering with a challenging light.

"I havent- " he started, before she cut him off.

"You have. Ygritte was practically spitting dragonfire when I saw her today, fuming about how you sprinted off and leapt onto a flying dragon rather than talk to her about me."

"The dragon was grounded when I leapt onto it." he offered, weakly.

"You're a bigger ass than that donkey up there on the high table, Jon Stark." Val turned away from him, finishing her braid of hair and letting it hang over one shoulder, and from the side profile of her lovely face Jon could see her eyes close and a morose expression come over her features. _Damn it. Do something, Jon. Do anything, Jon._

But before he could work up the courage for action, Val reached her hand across the log between them and interlaced her fingers with his. Jon's breath caught in his throat. Her hands were warm, and very soft, even with the tiny calluses that circled her palm from the long hours of hunting and sailing.

"Val.."

"Yes?" she asked, her tone artificially light and casual.

"Ygritte and I, we aren't- " his voice broke of, unsure.

"You oaf." Val snapped. "I already know that you aren't Ygritte's man anymore. D'you think I'd be here next to you if you still were?" She huffed. "Besides, even if that _were_ the case, she'd know better than to fight me for you, I'd snap her twiggy arms, just like when we were girls." The honey-blonde young woman turned to look him in the eyes, her braid shifting across her torso as she did so.

"Are you avoiding me, Jon Stark?" she teased, one eyebrow raised.

"No." he responded, the word coming out short and deep, spoken in his northern brogue. He squeezed her hand lightly in his, and she squeezed back. "Never."

He stood, still holding her hand, and sketched a mock bow. "Would you like to grace me with a dance, my lady?" _Stupid idea,_ a voice said somewhere in the colder parts of his head. _Quiet,_ said another part of him, admittedly less logical but with much more warmth. _Look at her,_ it continued, _she's strong, and wild, and beautiful._

Val laughed and leapt up, the two of them joining the throng, clapping their hands and stepping in time to the folk songs that Tormund belted out. The musicians by the lord's table played the notes with renewed vigor, and Jon found himself truly uplifted again for the first time since he'd received the letter from his uncle.

As the feast carried on into the night, Jon swung Val around in dance, and every time she flashed her pearly teeth in a smile or laugh, he felt light and giddy again in a way he hadn't for the past few years. _Happiness,_ he realized. _I am happy right now._

It wasn't the cool satisfaction of a enjoying a sea breeze from an empty clifftop, or the fierce exultation of riding into battle on dragonback, but a simple and bright joyfulness, in enjoying the company of another.

Eventually, the two of them found themselves huddled by a shadowy entryway, Val leaning against him, as they spoke softly to each other. The feast raged on behind them.

"You're flying south soon, Jon. Flying away from here."

"Aye, I must." his voice was pained.

She looked up at him, pale eyes flickering with the low torchlight. "I was enjoying taking my time with you, but we don't have much left then, do we?" Her eyes were pools of liquid light, and the heady smell of her hair filled his nose.

 _Don't_ , a voice warned him. _You only have a_ day _left, don't do it, you dolt._

Jon leaned in and kissed her deeply, crushing her slight body against his taller frame. Val returned his affections eagerly, kissing him back fiercely, digging her hands into his snowy hair. He held her tight to him, and she breathed softly against the exposed skin on his neck as the broke apart. Jon felt tide of emotion wash over him, both warring against and aiding his rising lust.

"I think I will be going to bed, all the feasting has worn me out." his voice was low, almost a growl.

"I think I will be joining you, I'm quite tired myself." Val raised her slim and muscled arms up over her head, stretching in a mock yawn. Jon watched, mesmerized by the ways her body shifted from the movement. Val grinned, she did not miss his hungry eyes this time.

They found their way to his chamber, a humbly small and sparsely decorated stone room on the second floor of the fort. Jon was not sure who threw whom onto the bed, but they wound up tangled in each other on top of the thick furs, tearing at each other's clothing like squabbling animals.

Jon found himself struggling with his cloth undershirt, briefly covered by it as he tugged hard to get it over his head. When he could see again, he was struck by the divine vision of Val's naked form, lit up by the moonlight from his single window, waiting for him on the other end of the bed. Her skin was pale and nearly perfect, only marred by a thin scar on her leg from a childhood accident and a slight nick under her right breast from a duel with another spearwife.

He grinned and went to her, capturing her lips in a kiss again, before trailing more kisses down to her neck and collarbone. Jon kept to being clean shaven, but the worries of the past few days and left a stubble growing on his face and jaw, the tiny hairs tickling at Val's breast.

She giggled and slapped at Jon's head, suddenly breaking off into a low moan as he reached her navel, and moved on to start paying attention to her inner thighs. The skin there was soft and sensitive, and Jon could feel the heat emanating from her womanhood.

"Jon- " she started to whisper, but he cut her off by moving his head right between her legs, mouth closing on her slick wetness. Val gasped and then gave a few hiccuping exhales, her body racked with the sudden sensations. Jon looked up as he kissed at her, enjoying the sight of her pleasure and reaching up to grasp a full breast in one of his hands.

The beautiful young woman reached down and ran her hands through his hair, sighing out low moans and soft whispers of encouragement. Jon pulled the sensitive nub of flesh into his mouth, the bud of a woman's pleasure, breathing on it and playing along it with his tongue. Val screeched delightfully as he did so, and her pitch only heightened when he slipped two of his long fingers into her sex.

He kept at it until Val twisted and squirmed, her core tightening in blissful release. Jon grinned, and he met her burning blue-grey eyes with his own steel greys.

"Jon, now. Come to me, I want you now." Val's voice was husky and laced tight with lust.

He obliged, quite willingly, gripping onto her hips and lifting her up ever so slightly as her legs parted around his waist. He felt the muscles of his lower stomach tighten in anticipation, as he slowly and smoothly entered into the gasping woman, until the entire shaft of his manhood was buried within her.

He rested there, for a moment, careful to stay as still as he could and allowing Val to adjust to him, a difficult task when every slight movement was thrilling agony. He bent down to kiss her, moving one hand up from her hip to caress her cheek, their hungry mouths dueling for dominance. Val gazed at him as they broke apart, leaning back and letting her arms lay loose over her head, baring her body to him. She grinned a predatory smile, began to rock her hips against him, and the friction instantly drove Jon to insanity.

He gripped both hands on her shapely hips again, and drove himself into her, pounding Val's lean and nubile body into the furs that they laid on, and stars filled his vision as the raw pleasure threatened to overtake him. She cried out as she moved with him, her arms coming up to grip onto his broad back.

Jon wrested some semblance of control back into his body, forcing himself to slow his pace down, just a bit. He breathed in deep, the heady scent of their lovemaking filled the air. He pulled away from her, and Val made a moue of disappointment as Jon slipped out of her.

"Gods, woman." he grumbled. "You drive me wild."

"Good," she breathed. "I like it when you're wild."

She gave out a short yelp as Jon grabbed onto her legs, pulling her close before flipping her onto her belly with a grunt and a heave of his arms. He yanked her up onto her knees, as he himself kneeled behind her on the bed, grasping his member with one hand and carefully guiding it into her. Val sighed, arching her back as he filled her again.

Jon started slow, but quickly built up a punishing rhythm as he took Val from behind, burying his head into her long hair and breathing in the aroma of her musk. As he felt her body spasm and her legs tremble, Jon moved his hands to grip her forearms and bring them behind her, pressing them into her back as he pulled her upright, nearly flush against his chest.

Val's body was ecstacy to him, her channel was tight and wet and _perfect_ around his cock, and Jon found himself quickly losing control again. As Val shuddered in climax, her womanhood seemed to grip onto him, and Jon could hold on no longer. They finished as one, Val gasping out her joy as her nerves lit up with pleasure, Jon arched over her, nipping at the soft skin of her neck and he spilled his seed inside.

They collapsed, both heaving with exhaustion, sweat beading and intermingling on their skin. Jon eventually managed to crawl off of Val's luscious form, laying down onto his bed and pulling her close to him before closing his eyes and falling into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Jon opened his eyes for the second time, still naked, one arm around Val, who still slumbered on his chest. She had woken him early in the morning, at dawn, with her mouth wrapped around his shaft and wicked gleam in her eye. He bedded her again then, multiple times, expending the lively energy that many young men had in the mornings, before the both of them fell back asleep.

He looked up at the window, from which a bright sunbeam shone in and and illuminated the room. Jon cursed, it had to be close to noon by now, which meant he was late. Very late.

Val lifted her head up, blinking blearily at him.

"Jon?"

"We overslept, Val." he kissed her quickly, then climbed out of bed and hastily began putting on the clothes he had set out the day before. Jon had donned his sewn leather overcoat and thick otter-fur and sealskin cloak before he remembered what it was he was rushing to dress for. He bit his lip and turned at Val, who even with bloodshot eyes and mussed hair looked a winter goddess, half-wrapped in the furs from his bed, one perfect breast bared.

"I have to be in White Harbor soon, to board the ship bound south with my cousins."

Val remained quiet, looking down at her lap.

"Val…"

"Don't apologize to me, Jon Stark. Don't you dare beg for my forgiveness or let yourself feel any guilt." She looked at and challenged him with strong and powerful gaze. "I am a spearwife, I am Free Folk of the True North. You won't find any maiden's tears here."

Jon ducked his head. "Aye, of course. I wouldn't dare." he agreed hurriedly.

Val laughed, the sound of her was marvel, as rich and sweet as the color of her hair.

"It is true, you are a proper lover, Jon Stark. You shouldn't worry about me, I am unashamed. I desired you as much as you did I, and enjoyed myself greatly. Go, Winters-blood. Go south and do your duty to the Lord Stark."

"Aye, I will." Jon nodded, his face grim. He strapped on his sword belt, making sure his dragonbone dagger was secure - a precious gift from his uncle Benjen - though the sword sheath remained empty for now. But as he moved to open the door, he turned back to look upon Val once more. She met his gaze, her face as cool as the white winds, as perfect as ice.

"Go, Jon." she murmured. Then, as her face lit up with one of those wild smiles, "perhaps when you next return, I'll have found a prettier and more accomplished lover than you."

He laughed at that, and then strode over and kissed her long and deep, once more. Then he strode briskly out of the room, closing the door behind him, moving with renewed purpose down the stone hallway.

Inside the room, however, Val merely touched her fingers lightly to her rouged lips, her eyes suddenly blank and vacant, all earlier fire disappeared. She lay down and buried her face into the soft furs of the bed, taking in the lingering traces of Jon's warmth and smell, weeping rivers of tears down her face as great coughing sobs racked her body. She stayed there, bundled up and crying, and it was how Ygritte found her even hours later when the younger woman came looking for Val.

But Jon did not know of this, and perhaps he would never know, for after he left his bedchambers in Kingshouse, he descended the hillside and walked straight to the Pebbletide. Even with Amattgur's speed, he knew it would be a close thing to reach White Harbor before the ship set sail; he'd need a whole hour with help of a few men just to pack and then saddle his dragon. Jon chewed over the problem in his head, calculating where he could perhaps take some shortcuts and save some extra time, when he rounded the little woodlands and was taken by surprise by the sight that greeted him.

Amattugr, saddled, packed, and ready, the massive leather dragon-saddle bursting to the brim with Jon's supplies and belongings. Tormund stood before the beast shouting orders at a handful of men and women as the scurried around the dragon, checking straps and tying down loose pieces. A rather shaken young woman stood under Amattugr's savage muzzle, tossing slabs of tuna and goat steaks straight up, which the dragon would burn midair with a sharp jet of blue flame before snapping them down his gullet. Tormund always delighted in having the newest recruits do feeding duty.

The big bearded man noticed Jon, turning around and clapping both meaty ham-hands onto his shoulders. Jon's knees buckled briefly but he held.

"Where's me thanks, lad? I was up at the crack o' dawn setting everything up for you, let you enjoy a little longer sleep." he winked. "Har! Give ya' something to think about during lonely nights down south. No women fuck like Free Folk women fuck. Har! Har!"

Jon thanked Tormund profusely for covering for his tardiness, wisely choosing to ignore engaging him on the second topic. He walked up to Amattugr, who twisted his great scaly neck around and regarded Jon with bright reptilian eyes. Jon rested a gloved hand on the end of Amattugr's snout, and the dragon closed his eyes in satisfaction, hot steam blowing out from it's nostrils.

The young man then walked around the resting dragon to check at the dragon-saddle. It was a huge artifice, two sets of massive straps, made of specially treated and oiled leather, wrapping around the front and back ends of where Amattugr's wings joined with his torso. The leather straps were secured by massive buckles of brass and steel, and crossed over the dragon's chest and belly to form a harness. Nestled between them topside, just forward of the wing joints, where the dragon's neck met it's torso, was the actual seat. The seat was exquisite craftsmanship, a separate and older piece from the harness, made of leather and valyrian steel. The leather contained etchings of dragons, swirling in flight, over direwolves on the hunt. There were no stirrups, instead, there were leather belts protruding from either side of it that Jon would strap his legs into.

It dated to the time of Cregan Stark, one of the first dragon-saddles he had crafted for House Stark's dangerous new mounts. It was something of an heirloom in his family, and it had been one of two gifts his uncle Lord Eddard had bequeathed upon him after his legitimization. The other hung from a saddle-sheath right next to the seat, where it could be easily stored and drawn by the rider.

 _Sable Sorrow_ , a bastard sword of smoky valyrian steel, with a hand-and-a-half hilt made from midnight-dark dragonbone, which enclosed a glittering black pearl to form the pommel. It's sister-sword was _White Anguish_ , nearly identical except for its pure alabaster pearl, and his cousin Robb wielded it at Castle Black, the legendary fortress at the Wall, which defended the North from the monsters that lie Beyond.

The twin blades had once been _Vigilance_ and _Lamentation_ , valyrian steel swords that Cregan Stark took as spoils of war from the first Dance. He had new hilts put in and presented them as gifts to his new wives, the sisters Rhaena and Baela - both renowned warrior women - who promptly renamed them. By most historical accounts, the twin Targaryen sisters were as vicious and mean as they were beautiful.

Tormund stood next to him, a careful eye scanning over the saddle and it's connecting leather pieces. A single loose line or bent buckle could mean death for Jon, if he wasn't quick enough to unstrap himself in time. "The saddlebags are packed with three days o' food and water - just in case, all your little toys and trinkets, and the trunk." he grunted. "If you hafta lose anything, don't make it be that fuckin' trunk."

The bags on the left side of the dragon-saddle were bursting to the seams, but the right side was suspiciously empty-looking. Jon noted the long, extra-large bag that hung from that side, stuffed with straw and lined with fur.

He whistled, and his direwolf partner slunk out from behind the cover of the thick beachfront brush. Ghost whimpered, his ears laid flat against his skull, and head hung low to the ground.

"C'mon you great squealing babe," Jon called out. "Get up in there, it's not like it's the first time for you."

Ghost whimpered again, and Amattugr snorted steam out of his snout with what one could construe as an air of derision. The direwolf padded over and stared at Jon with look of tragic betrayal painted across his canine face, before leaping into the massive straw-stuffed leather satchel. Tormund laughed.

Soon, everything was ready except for the goodbyes.

Jon stood next to Tormund, both watching as Amattugr stretched and flexed his muscles, impatient to be flying. The other helpers had already finished their preparations and had headed back to Kingshouse.

"My son is in White Harbor." Tormund started.

Jon glanced over. "Toregg, yes? I met him once, I believe, when I was a child."

"Aye, he was here on Skagos the first time your uncle brought his family to visit. The two o' you and little Robb were the bane of my existence for all the days you were here. I wrote to him recently, he's apprenticed to a knight, calls himself a squirrel or a quarrel or some shite like that."

"He's a squire."

"Right, like I said. He's a great ol' failure of a Free Folk man, but I hear he's bigger'n an' stronger'n me now, Har! And can swing a sword an' ride a horse with the best o' those fishy buggers. I asked him to swear his steel to you, and guard your back when you travel south."

Tormund turned to him, greenish eyes peering at him through the long grey hair and thick bushy beard. "It would do me well if you accept him."

"I will." Jon promised, his tone serious. Tormund slapped him on the back. Jon almost fell forwards, but managed to catch himself.

"Good lad. Y'need someone to watch yer back, you do like to leave it wide open."

Jon checked himself over, making sure the overcoat was on tight, and that his heavy dark cloak was properly clasped.

"I suppose..this is it then, Tormund."

"Aye, lad."

The two men, one younger and one much older, gripped each other's right forearm in the traditional greeting and farewell of the First Men. Right before Jon let go, he looked up at the big man.

"Tormund. The past nine years have been good to me. You gave me a home, you gave me a purpose, you were a father to me when I needed a father, and a brother when I needed a brother. These years have been good to me, because of you." Jon swallowed thickly, unable to look the other man in the eye. "I thank you. You're family to me, and I promise to you I will return here, to Skagos, where you have helped me build my home." Jon shut his eyes, bracing himself for Tormund's mocking laughter.

Instead, the big chieftain pulled him close and enveloped him in a great bear hug. Tormund squeezed the smaller man tight, his teeth clenched and fighting a losing battle to stuff his tears back into his eye sockets.

"Jon, my boy, you've been just as good to me. The Isle o' Stone and Scale is made better by you being here." Tormund released Jon, holding the young man out at arm's length. "You are a son o' mine, my boy. Even with your strange girly face and your tiny pecker. Har!"

Jon nodded, blinking back tears of his own, turning and pulling himself up into the saddle, slotting his leads into the leather straps. He looked down at the Giantsbane, a rather rare occurrence.

"Until next time, Tormund Giantsbane."

"Aye! Until next time, Jon Winters-blood!" he bellowed back, turning around and marching back towards Kingshouse.

There was nothing else to be said til' then.

Heeding Jon's will, Amattugr beat his great white wings against the pebbly surf, picking up speed as the dragon lumbered forwards until he was airborne, roaring in joy to be flying again. Ghost pushed his head out from the lip of the closed saddlebag flap, tongue lolling in the wind.

The three brothers, shining white in the noonday sun, left Skagos behind them as they soared south towards White Harbor.

And King's Landing.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:** Looking for betas, PM me if interested!

* * *

" _To look upon the vastness of the Wildspine is to see the anvil of the Smith himself, gracing the earth from where He had dropped it from among the stars. Truly, a sign that our conquest is a blessed one, for such a natural wonder to appear here, in this new bounty."_

\- Artys Arryn, the First of His Name, the Falcon Knight, the Winged Knight, the first King of Mountain and Vale

" _The 'Spine? The work o' the children, any daft fool could tell you. Raised them peaks up with the old songs of the earth. I've seen many a normal mount'n range in my life, an' none o' them look like_ _that_ _."_

\- A peasant

* * *

 **Jon Connington**

He strolled into council chambers of the Red Keep, hoping against all odds that this time he would be the earliest, but nonetheless unsurprised to see his wife's smiling face greet him from where she sat at the left side of the King. Rhaegar himself made it a point to never be late to his own small council meetings, oftentimes calling for the councilors only after he was already seated at the head of the long table. And his younger sister was always the first one by his side, for half the time he called the damn meetings at her behest.

Even if Shaena wasn't the reason the small council was summoned, and even if the woman wasn't punctual to a nearly irritable degree, the Griffin Lord knew that his wife was almost as knowledgeable of the Keep's multitudes of secret passageways and hidden entryways as Lord Varys himself. Many at court whispered that the Princess Shaena kept nearly as many spies as well, and that the King kept her as a confidant so that he may have his own personal Spider.

Connington wasn't so sure about that, but he was sure that Rhaegar and Shaena were the closest among all their surviving siblings - the closest in age and in affection. After all, they just as easily could've been husband and wife, brother wedded to sister in the Targaryen fashion. But Aerys had wanted to humiliate his talented second son with a Dornish wife, a people the Mad King saw as dirty and inferior, and Rhaegar had gotten into his head that it was destiny that saw him to marry Elia Martell, instead of a cruel and jealous cunt of a father.

And then the Dragons had Danced.

After it all, Rhaegar had asked him to take Shaena's hand in marriage, to add more legitimacy to his new position as Hand of the King, Rhaegar had told him, and so that they could be bound as brothers in law if not in blood.

Rhaegar lifted his somber indigo eyes up to greet him now, a small nod of the head and a wry, barely-there smile to welcome him. Even though both men were aged now, Rhaegar's sad eyes remained the exact same as he remembered them decades ago, deep lavender pools of sorrow dotted with flecks of sparking amethyst, and he was sure they would be the same even when they were old men. The aging lord smiled back at his lifelong friend, even as a familiar pain ached in his chest. He shamed this man, even now. He shamed Shaena every day of their marriage, and shamed her further by binding her to his secret. But these aches were old ones, and Connington dismissed them as quickly as he always did.

The Stomlander lord quickly crossed over to the table, leaning down and sharing a quick, chaste kiss with his lady wife as he passed by her. Shaena tasted like honeysuckle, and smelled of the freesias from their balcony garden. He then smoothed down his tunic, made of a rich silk dyed dark brown, and straightened the bright silver brooch that denoted his office. Connington was placed at his customary spot, at the strong right Hand of the King, and not a moment after he was seated did the other members of the small council begin filing in.

Monford Velaryon, Master of Ships, tall and handsome with long, flowing fair hair. The man looked more like a jester than the great admiral he was, wearing that foppish wide-brimmed hat plumed with egret feathers.

With him strode Tywin Lannister, and his sharp green eyes, the former Hand to Aerys II and now a mere Master of Coin under the rule of his son Rhaegar, though all knew that the Old Lion held the King's ear in nearly all matters of the state, due to his shrewd wisdom - and his daughter being the Queen.

Lastly came the Kingsguard, one older and balding, who strode straight over to Rhaegar in order to stand at his King's side, and the other, young, handsome, and golden-haired, closing the great chamber door and standing guard outside - flanked by the stone Valyrian sphinxes.

The small council was nearly all here, but one face stood out as unusual at the gathering. Shaena smiled at the old Kingsguard standing by his King.

"Dear Ser, don't make a lady cry now, and tell me that the Ser White Bull has finally passed and named you Lord Commander." she teased.

Barristan the Bold grinned back at her. "I regret to inform you that he's merely resting an injured leg from the sparring yard, and as such has sent me in his stead to represent the Kingsguard." The aged knight harrumphed. "Not much of a difference, if you ask me, it takes about two old fools to make up one competent Lord Commander."

Shaena laughed, the sound lovely and full and rich, and for the umpteenth time Connington thanked the gods for the wisdom of they granted Rhaegar to break tradition and name a woman to his small council, for even if Shaena wasn't clever nearly to the point of aggravating, just having a beautiful woman's laugh to light up this dingy gathering of musty old men was a blessing in and of itself.

Rhaegar brought his arms up onto the table and laced his fingers together, straightening in his seat. Instantly, all the soft greetings and small conversations between the gathered men and woman quieted, as they looked in anticipation to their Silver King. Connington marveled, not for the first time and not for the last, at how Rhaegar _commanded_ attention, his presence massive even in a room with some of the most powerful and dangerous people in Westeros.

"Master Varys will be joining us shortly. He has already been informed of what I will tell you now, and so we will begin without him," his voice was smooth, deep, and pleasant to the ear, a singer's voice, underlaced with the hard iron tones of a Targaryen dragonking. "As you all know, Sunfyre the Golden died sleeping in his nest within the Dragonpit yesterday noon, and Maester Aemon fell into a coma from the backlash of his mount's death."

"Have we confirmed that the dragon succumbed to natural causes? I know the great beast was old enough, but it's rare for a dragon to go so… peacefully." Lord Monford cut in.

Rhaegar settled his eyes on the Velaryon. "Foul play has not been ruled out, but with our resident dragon expert unconscious and with no sign of quick recovery, we await Archmaester Marwyn to travel from the Citadel and examine Sunfyre's corpse."

Shaena added on after her brother had finished. "The Dragonkeepers are sure that none besides one of their own or great-uncle Aemon had approached the dragon for many past weeks."

The Lord Hand frowned and stroked at the red hairs of his bristly short beard. "At a mere ten men strong, the Order of the Dragonkeepers is hardly what they used to be."

"And neither are the dragons that they care for." spoke a rasping yet strong baritone voice.

Shaena glared at Lord Tywin for his quip, and he met her gaze cooly. Rhaegar watched the two of them battle a duel of wills for just a few moments longer before intervening.

"Enough." he pulled a letter out from his garments, unfurling the small raven-sent scroll. "I received this from Winterfell this very morning, penned in Lord Eddard Stark's own hand. It states in not so many blunt words that his younger children Brandon and Arya Stark have both successfully hatched a new dragon."

The reactions around the room varied. Monford Velaryon paled, a horrified expression on his face. Shaena frowned, deeply. Ser Barristan coughed surprise into his mailed fist, and Lord Tywin was unreadable. Connington himself chose to grimace.

 _Damn and blast. News of two new Stark dragonriders a day after we lose one of ours. The gods curse us._

Lord Tywin was the first to speak in the wake of shock. "How were they hatched? Is there any knowledge of that?" he leaned forwards as he spoke, pale green eyes flecked with gold boring holes into Rhaegar's skull, as if he could glean the secrets from the brain within with his stare alone. Connington wasn't sure if he was ready to claim that the Old Lion _couldn't._

Rhaegar passed the letter over to Shaena to read. "No, only that it was done with the help of their older cousin, the young Jon Stark."

"The Bastard of Winterfell." Lord Monford muttered. "Who hatched his own dragon three years ago, on Skagos. And the last one before that was- "

"Brandon Stark, the old heir, close to twenty-five years ago, now. Both of them _white-hairs_ of House Stark." Lord Tywin finished.

"Starks of that look are known as _Winters-blood_ , my lord." Shaena corrected.

The Old Lion of Lannister bared his teeth in an expression somewhere between grim smile and angry scowl. "Whatever it is northerners decide to call them, it does not change the fact that _we_ are left with no viable eggs left on Dragonstone, and only _one_ remaining rider, who cannot fly into battle seeing that he is our King."

Rhaegar's eyes narrowed at that. "I will mount Gaelithox should it come to war, to defend my people and my- "

Shaena cut him off, laying a delicate hand on her older brother's forearm. "Unfortunately, you cannot do that, not unless all else is truly lost. None can doubt your bravery, my King, but only a fool of a ruler would fly into battle, even on dragonback. You would risk the entire Realm in doing so."

"It truly is a cataclysmic emergency, if you and Lord Tywin are in agreement on something." Connington murmured. Shaena scoffed at him, and the Lannister lord did not even deign to respond.

"It would seem, then, that the Balance is well and truly broken now." spoke Ser Barristan.

"Yes," Connington answered. "Lord Eddard, Lord Rickard, Jon Stark, and these two new Northern riders, to our own lonesome King Rhaegar."

For all that Gaelithox the Sage was a mighty and powerful dragon, fully grown and proven war mount, he and Rhaegar alone could not hope to stand against _five_ dragons. Especially not northern dragons. Ser Barristan was right; the ancient Balance between the two Houses - a similar number of loyal riders on each side since the time of the first Dance - was well and truly broken.

Rhaegar drummed his fingers on the deep mahogany surface of the tabe. His eyes held that far-away look that was often worn when the man was deep in thought, though it seemed the King didn't need to be fully present in order to hold conversation. "Ned won't ride Jokull Winters-bite out of Winterfell, or rather, he can't, unless the castle itself is threatened. Lord Rickard has… not recovered yet from the war, and still has no new mount, not any that I know of." he said, rather distractedly.

"Regardless, something must be done about the new riders, permanently, before they are grown and too dangerous to properly deal with." Tywin growled.

"You speak of murdering children, my lord." said Shaena, her words chilly.

"I speak of restoring the Balance and protecting the Realm, my lady."

"No." boomed Rhaegar. "I will not see a third Dance of the Dragons, not so soon after my own, and not ever if I can prevent it. Something _has_ already been done about young Brandon and Arya, Lord Tywin."

The old Lannister lord quirked his brow in a silent question.

"I have taken it upon myself to act as soon as I had received this news, and have bid Lord Eddard to send the two children here, to the capitol, so I may take them as royal wards and raise them alongside my own children."

"They would be dangerous hostages to have, Your Grace," Lord Monford muttered. "Two young northern dragons, here? Even if they are only babes… one wrong move and it could mean war."

Ser Barristan looked troubled at the concept. "War with the North would be very, very, ugly. Even without bringing dragons into the question, the North holds the Wildspine, and the only viable pass through it. They could strike us with impunity and retreat back beyond that impassable barrier the moment we manage to regroup."

Connington remembered his boyhood lessons well. The Wildspine was greatest barrier protecting and separating the North from the other six kingdoms. A massive mountain range stretching across the middle of Westeros, touching upon the Mountains of the Moon in the east and the Pendric Range in the west, dwarfing both and making them seem like children gathered around the skirts of their mother. No foreign force since Aegon the Conqueror had ever taken it, and _six_ invasion attempts launched by the Vale - the infamous "Summit Crusades" - had all failed. It was said that a hundred good men could hold that single lonely path through those towering peaks against a hundred thousand. No, the only real way through the Wildspine was over, on a dragon.

"A mountain is not an enemy, my lords." Tywin started. "No matter how high it climbs, at the end of the day, a mountain is still just a pile of dirt and rock, despite whatever grandiose names and symbolism we ascribe to it. I should know, I happen to live in one such mountain."

His cold green eyes scanned around the table.

"No, the true enemy there are the men who infest those particular mountains. House Gale and their ilk. Without the help of those savages, the Starks could never navigate a true army through the passes. They rely on the guidance of the mountain men in order to properly make use of the Wildspine."

Shaena scoffed at this. "And what do you propose to do about these mountain men, O Lord Loin? Send your men to scale the great peaks and brave storms and sheer cliffs and savage spire-hawks? Or perhaps you will lead them yourself, undefeated general as you are."

Connington watched the way that Tywin's eyes narrowed with a slight bit of alarm, cutting in before it came to blows. "My dear, Lord Tywin may be right about the need for more troop presence up north."

Shaena shot him a look that made the Griffin Lord wince. He would be paying for that, with interest. Nevertheless, he soldiered on, unfurling a map of the Realm atop the council table. "I'm not too sure about these 'savage men', but to be certain there is evil that needs rooting out beyond the Crownlands." He tapped the area on the thick parchment map that denoted where three great rivers flowed down from the Spine to form the Trident. "Outlaws. A new brotherhood of bandits plagues us, my lords. Three nights ago they hit Fairmarket in a lightning raid, slaughtered most of the on-duty garrison and torched half the town before making off with whatever food, valuables and women they could carry."

"I had hoped those rumors to be false, but it seems a standard group of ruffians. Surely to be easily stomped out." commented Lord Velaryon.

Connington sighed. "I sent Lord Raymun Darry to rout them, he was to set forth last night with fifty mounted knights and a detachment of Whent men-at-arms, but already I've received a raven that the perpetrators have simply scattered and melted into the foothills. There is no significant enemy to face, and they cannot conduct a real campaign against the outlaws, not with those low numbers."

"So they are frightened off, but not pacificed." muttered the King.

"I will send my best men, under my own brother Kevan, to flush out and exterminate these vermin." Tywin growled. "After doing so they will set up an encampment, right at the mouth of the mountains. Your Grace, for all that you mean well in diplomatic entreaty with the North, your carrot is rather useless without the stick."

Before Rhaegar could respond, the great oaken doors swung open and the gathered small council turned to see Jaime Lannister ushering in the final and tardy member of their illustrious group. Lord Varys somehow managed to, at once, sweep into the chamber grandly and yet also waddled in stiffly.

"Apologizes, my lords, my lady." the eunuch's voice was pitched highly. "I was in the rookery awaiting an message from Lord Stark, a message that could not be allowed in anyone's hands beside my own." The bald man looked to the King. "I am told it concerns the young Stark children that you have, shall we say, invited here, Your Grace."

The fat eunuch marched the scroll straight to Rhaegar's hands, who promptly opened and read the small parchment. Silver brows furrowed, and a frown appeared.

Eventually, the silver-haired king let out a long and tired sigh, handing the letter over to his Hand, waving it away dismissively once Connington took it from him.

"Go ahead, Jon."

The Griffin Lord looked at the little paper with no small amount of apprehension. This could may well be a declaration of war _._

" _To my lord liege and trusted friend, Rhaegar Targaryen, first of his name, King of the Andals, the First Men, and the Rhoynar, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm_ ," he read aloud to the council.

" _I hope my message finds you and yours in good health, and know that I wish the blessings of the Old Gods upon Maester Aemon, who was to me a mentor and a grandfather both in my youth_."

"I see that the Quiet Wolf has been practicing his silver tongue." chuckled Shaena. Rhaegar quieted her with a hand on her arm.

Connington continued. " _I have given your proposal to host two of my children as wards much thought, and find it acceptable. I have great hope they shall form strong bonds with your own children and the children of your retainers, and thus tie our two Houses ever closer._ "

" _However, I fear that due to the youth of my children, and of their newborn dragons, I cannot leave them without proper guidance, and thus, have commanded their cousin, Jon Stark, trueborn son of my sister Lyanna, to accompany them to the capital. With him I send a great gift to House Targaryen, one that I have instructed Jon to deliver personally upon his arrival: a full clutch of ten dragon's eggs from the Isle of Stone and Scale. I do so in hopes you will overlook this sudden addendum to your royal command, and to ask forgiveness for the rash decisions of a doting father_."

A sudden hiss of shocked intake filled the room as Lord Velaryon reacted to the news, and even the normally unflappable Barristan Selmy looked startled. But Connington focused on Tywin Lannister, and his distinct _lack_ of reaction. Either Varys' network had been compromised or the Lion Lord had informants just as skilled as the Spider's. He did not like the thought of either option.

"Dragon eggs." breathed Shaena.

"Enough for each member of our family, including all of my children." Rhaegar mused, though Connington could see in his eyes that the man's mind was racing at the thought. "This changes many things."

"We forget the immediacies of this news, that it will not be two winter dragons that we shall host, but three." spoke Lord Tywin.

"And not all mere hatchlings either." Barristan mused. "Jon Stark's mount is not yet fully grown, but a northern dragon?" The old kingsguard drummed his fingers on the hilt of his longsword. "Very dangerous indeed."

"He sends the bastard and his dragon as a threat, for all the possibilities that those eggs offer us in the future, they are naught but pretty stones to us at the moment, and all the while a loyal Stark rider arrives at our doorstep in _days._ "

"You know not what you speak of, my lord. These are dragons, they are a Targaryen matter, of which you have no say." Shaena leveled her gaze at the old Lannister.

"My dear, you forget that my grandchildren are as much your House as they are mine." the old lord replied grimly.

Before the council could _really_ erupt, Jamie Lannister entered the chamber once again. "Apologies, Your Grace, but messenger was quite insistent."

Varys took the small raven scroll from the knight, examining the seal on the parchment briefly. "From one of my little birds beyond the Bite." he muttered, handing it to Rhaegar.

The King read it and immediately groaned. This time he did not bother to have Connington read it out to the others for him.

"Arya Stark has gone missing."

* * *

 **Jon Stark**

"She _what!?"_

The bearded knight facing him winced at Jon's sudden outburst. Ser Marlon Manderly was the garrison commander at New Castle, and despite the gray of his hair and beard the man still stood straight-backed and was built like a bear.

"I've had my men out in groups combing the foothills for her and the boy in constant shifts since we found out the young lady was gone- "

"And they've found nothing? Not even tracks?" Jon growled. Somewhere deep inside of him, he realized that he was being terribly and rudely unfair to the man, but that feeling was buried under layers of nausea about his missing cousin. _My first task for my uncle, and I've already failed before I could even start._

"The issue is, we didn't know she had left until days after she'd already gone, m'lord. The girl is prone to sneaking off castle grounds and wandering about the city with that servant boy of hers. None had questioned her absence."

Jon sighed, kneading at his temples with his gloved hands. He remembered well how Arya was whenever he visited Winterfell. They called her Underfoot with good reason, and Lord Eddard had always fondly called her his precocious little adventurer. Wolfs-blood and dragons-blood made a for volatile mixture in many members of their family.

Their leniency with Arya was backfiring on them now.

"Enough now, go and manage your duties Ser Marlon. I'll search for them on Amattugr when he returns from feeding."

The older knight bowed stiffly before leaving. Jon sighed again, feeling both a fool and an imposter as he sank into a plush armchair nearby. When Jon and his dragon had arrived in the Merman Court, Lord Manderly had seen fit to shower him with fine gifts and throw a rich banquet in his honor, as well as rooming him in the largest suite New Castle had to offer - the one they normally reserved for visiting High Lords. Or the King, not that the King has ever been to White Harbor.

He knew the reason for such treatment was because he was a dragonrider, one of the only active ones in the entirety of the Seven Kingdoms, and thus seen as a powerful and influential figure, even with the lack of any real titles or land. But at the core of his being Jon still felt himself a mere bastard boy, who had the luck of stumbling over a white egg in the snows of Skagos.

His opulent guest chambers were situated near the top of the castle, and had a commanding view of both the city and the inner harbor, and the first thing Jon had done on arrival was to throw open the doors to his balcony and let the fresh sea breeze into his living space.

He gazed out over the jewel of the North, the sounds of a bustling harbor city distracting him from these new troubles. Jon sunk further into the soft down of the chair, closing his eyes and allowed the calming gusts of ocean wind to soothe him. The air had the sharp smell of ocean salt, mixed in with the scent of fresh bread from the New Castle bakeries.

"You won't find her, you know." a young boy's voice snapped him out of his reverie. Jon startled, nearly falling out of his chair.

"Bran!" he hissed, turning around and spotting the dark-haired boy sitting on the balcony. Where were had he even been hiding? Jon hadn't left the chambers all day.

Bran seemed to sense the unspoken question, his lilac eyes sparkling with mirth. "I wasn't in the room, cousin. I was trying to reach the top of the castle only climbing the walls when I overheard you yelling at Ser Marlon."

"I wasn't yelling at Ser Marlon. And anyways, what do you mean I _won't_ find Arya?"

His young cousin skipped into the room, the sunlight catching on a few stray auburn hairs he no doubt inherited from his Tully mother. Bran looked every inch a lordling in his fine silk shirt and embroidered tunic, so long as one ignored the scratches on his hands and bare feet.

"I _mean_ , Arya and Gendry have been running 'round White Harbor for weeks now. They know the city and the hills and the river like the back of their hands. They'll be well north of here by now."

Jon growled. He was really making a bad habit of it. "Then I'll fly to Winterfell and bring her back here when she shows up."

"Arya isn't going to Winterfell. Father would just send her back in a cage if she did."

"Pray tell then Bran, where is she going?"

Bran grinned. The little jester was still growing in his last man's tooth. ""I'm not supposed to tell." he replied.

Jon sighed. He may not know his younger cousins very well but did remember one thing from the last time he had visited Winterfell. "If you tell me, I'll take you for a ride on Amattgur."

"Yes!" the boy leapt into the air as he cheered.

"One ride! Now, tell me."

"Arya's taking Gendry with her up to Robb."

"What? To _Castle Black?_ She's trying to cross nearly the whole of the North on foot!"

"No! Three days ago a black brother named Yoren came to guide the newest group of volunteers to the Wall. Arya told me her and Gendry are going to catch up to them and join disguised as peasant boys, and then just tell Robb when she arrives."

"Why is she going through all this trouble anyways?" groaned Jon.

Bran made a face. "She thinks that when we get to King's Landing they're going to take her dragon and then marry her off to some fat old lord. That's what Wylla Manderly told her they do to girl wards in the South. Arya says that Robb will protect her and her dragon, even if he doesn't have one."

Knowing how much Robb spoiled his youngest sister, Jon had no doubt Arya was correct on that point.

"I wonder if Lord Stark knows about all this already." he mused. His uncle always seemed to have knowledge of news even before the fastest ravens or riders could have possibly brought word to him.

When he looked back at Bran the boy was frowning. "They're not going to take our dragons, are they? Should I have left with Arya, Jon?"

Bran seemed to double in size every time Jon saw him, he often forgot the boy was only twelve. "No," he sighed. "I won't let that happen Bran. Come here." he continued as he reached out to tussle his cousin's hair.

Jon instantly pulled his hand back as a scaly little figure flashed out from underneath Bran's silk shirt, and tiny green jaws snapped shut right where Jon's fingers had been a moment ago.

"Hey!" Bran shouted, holding the hissing creature in both hands. "Don't do that!"

The baby dragon wriggled out of Bran's grip, crawling up his neck and resting in his dark brown curls, keeping it's bright yellow eyes trained on Jon.

"Ah, sorry Jon. It's just recently been..." Bran started sheepishly.

"No, my own fault. I should've known better. I remember when Amattgur was like that too as a hatchling." laughed Jon. He let the little creature sniff tentatively at his hand, fingers tucked it so it couldn't try to take one off again. Tiny emerald scales caught the light as it titled its head curiously at Jon.

"Have you settled on a name yet?"

Bran looked up. "For the dragon? No, not yet. I have been sitting on it for weeks now, though. I think I want something like yours, or Father's."

"A name in Stone Tongue?" Jon hummed. "It is traditional. Stone Tongue is the dialect of the Old Tongue that ancient Skagosi spoke. We use it to honor the island that our dragons are born on. But names in Stone Tongue always have meaning, and it's important to know what they are before you choose one; Lord Eddard's mount is Jokull Winters-bite, and _Jokull_ means 'ice'. Ice is also the name of the ancestral valyrian sword of your House, so it's a very symbolic title."

Bran stuck his tongue out at Jon. "It's your House too."

Jon just smiled and shook his head slowly. _I share your name now, but I was born a Snow. At best I am merely a branch member of the family. A Stark of Skagos, perhaps._

The younger boy tilted his head curiously, before continuing. "But what about your dragon's name, Jon? What does 'Amattgur' mean?"

Jon smiled, watching the afternoon sun catch upon white scales as he sighted his dragon soaring back towards the harbor. "Fearsome."

He stood up, briskly moving around the room and snatching up his sundry belongings. "Come on, little cousin, off you go. Pack your things, it's about time we ready to leave, now that the big beast is back from feeding."

"Are you not coming with me?"

"Even if I need to go bring back your scamp of a sister first, _you_ still need to be on that ship today in order to make it to King's Landing on time." Jon ruffled Bran's hair affectionately, and this time the little dragon didn't attempt to relieve him of any appendages. "At the very least, I'll walk you to the docks."

Of course, his plans were scrapped and changed for a new one the moment they stepped out of New Castle, as the world was wont to do with good plans.

A particularly large raven winged down to alight on Jon's shoulder as he and Bran walked down the white stone steps of Castle Stair. It pecked at Jon's white hair until he snatched up the scroll tied to it's leg and shooed it away. The message was from Lord Stark.

" _I know about Arya. Leave her to me. You need to make sure the eggs are delivered safely to the King immediately, and keep watch over Bran."_

Jon pocketed the letter, next the longer, more important list of instructions he had received on Skagos. He turned back to watch Bran struggle with his heavy knapsack of belongings. The young boy had adamantly refused to allow any Manderly servants carry his things for him, and his little dragon was dozing away while curled up around his neck like a living collar.

"It seems your Lord Father will be handling our little runaway. I will be needed in King's Landing with you."

Bran looked up in excitement. "So you will be sailing with us, then? It'll be an adventure, Jon! I've been reading about King's Landing, besides, Wynafryd and Wylla have been telling me all sorts of stories from when they visited. All the most legendary knights in the Realm are there - the White Bull, Barristan the Bold, and Arthur Dayne, The Sword of the Morning."

All of this bouncing around jostled the baby dragon awake, and it hissed its displeasure at Bran, nipping at his ears before disappearing back down his shirt in a flash of emerald scales.

"The Kingsguard, eh? I've heard the songs and stories."

The two Starks made their way across the city towards the Seal Gate, which opened into the inner harbor and housed the busiest part of any port city: the docks. As they made their way through the main thoroughfare, smallfolk and guardsmen alike parted - staring, bowing, whispering and pointing.

There was only one young man in the North who had snow-white hair, and even without the mighty dragon by his side the people recognized him. Bastard, dragonrider, heir to Skagos, and a winters-blood Stark to boot. Jon was a walking scandal, and yet, commanded great respect. And great fear.

"Have you been to King's Landing before, Bran?" he asked. Jon realized that he didn't actually know. He'd spent nearly ten years on Skagos, and the island was rather isolated from any outside news that didn't have to do with dragons.

"No," the young boy shook his head. "I was too young when Mother took Robb and Sansa to visit the King. Arya was still a baby." This would've been right after Jon had left Winterfell then. "I don't mind, though. I'm going to ask to be squired as soon as we get to the Red Keep. I'm old enough now, and I swore to Mother before I left I'd be a legendary knight myself when she sees me again."

"Is that so?"

"I'll be one of the Kingsguard! The best one ever." huffed the younger Stark.

Jon laughed. "A Kingsguard dragon-knight. You do have the trappings of a legend there, little cousin. Every dragon-knight who ever served as a Kingsguard was a Targaryen, and the last one was Prince Aelor, in the time of Aegon V. You'd be competing against the likes of him and even greater warriors: Aemon the Dragonknight, Jacaerys Windfury, Daemon Blackfyre- "

"Hey! Daemon Blackfyre wasn't even a Kingsguard!"

Jon shrugged. "So? He was just as good, if not better. Daemon slew almost all of the loyal Targaryen riders in the air. It took _five_ Starks on northern dragons to bring him down, and even then only with help from Bloodraven's arrows."

Bran pouted. "What do you know? You're not even a knight."

"That much is true." Jon bared his teeth in a mock snarl. "But I do challenge you to find a steel-clad man on a horse who'd want to face down me on Amattugr."

Bran giggled, and Jon continued with his impromptu history lesson. "Daemon's half brother Bittersteel was an powerful rider too, and so were all of Daemon's sons. The Starks flew south to aid the Targaryens in the First and Second Blackfyre Rebellions. Never before had so much dragon blood been shed in Westeros, not even in the time of the first Dance. The Starks never took part in any of the Crown's conflicts ever since."

"Until Grandfather?"

"Yes, until Grandfather, and our uncle Brandon, came south to fight in Rhaegar's Dance." _They learned the same lesson our ancestors did: we Starks never do well when we go south._

"And Father couldn't join them because he was already Jokull's new rider."

"He couldn't. Take a care if you ever speak to him about this, because your lord father still blames himself for that to this day."

Eventually they made their way down to the docks, and the sight of the ship that awaited them briefly took Jon's breath away. But of course, Lord Stark would have spared no expense in ensuring the safety of his children during travel, even if he was sending them to a viper's den.

One of the the North's most legendary flagships was anchored in the inner harbor, taking up a large dock space meant for two ships by its lonesome. Curiously, it had no oars, and twin masts with massive white sails, easily thrice the amount of sheet as the next largest ship in the harbor. The entire vessel was built from pieces of carved hardwood from the Summer Isles, and fitted together without a single nail. Once, it had been a swan ship belonging to Xanda Qo, Princess of Sweet Lotus Vale. Now, as depicted by the snarling symbol of House Stark it bore on it's sails, it was a wolf ship of the Northern Fleet.

Looking at the carved figurehead on the prow, a clenched fist holding forth a bolt of lightning, Jon recognized it as the _Stormchaser_ , one of the three swan ships that his distant ancestor, Brandon the Shipwright, and traded half of his great fleet for, in an attempt to sail across the Sunset Sea.

As far as anybody knew, those three ships were the only swan ships in the world not crewed by Summer Islanders. Jon had never seen any of them before now, and he was suitably impressed with the size and beauty of the ocean-going vessel.

Up close, the massive ship was even more awe-inspiring, the hardwood shining in the midday sun despite what had to have been centuries of use. There were no visible seams that Jon could see, in fact, it almost looked as if the entire ship had been _grown_ into the shape that it was.

"M'lords!" a voice called. Jon looked to see a slight man with thinning brown hair standing at the railing of the ship. "We're set to sail 'on the hour!"

To board the ship, there was no gangplank as most vessels had. Instead, so far above the dock was the actual deck of the ship, a ladder had to be lowered for the two Starks to embark the _Stormchaser._ Bran scampered up with his usual swiftness on most vertical surfaces, even as laden down as he was.

As Jon reached the top rungs of a ladder, a rough and calloused hand reached down to haul him up the rest of the way. He found himself face-to-face with the man who had called out to them, an older man with eyes the same shade of brown as his hair, and a beard liberally peppered with gray.

"Welcome aboard, m'lords. You may call me Davos Seaworth, of House Seaworth, and I am captain of this vessel."

"Jon Stark." he replied, stepping forward to grasp the other man's proffered hand. Despite his slight build, this Davos Seaworth had a strong grip, and Jon could see that his arms were corded with the tough muscle of a career sailor and soldier. If advancing age was slowing him down, the man did not show it.

Bran grinned up at the captain. "You're from King's Landing!"

"Aye, that I am, lad." Davos grinned back. "Flea Bottom born an' whelped, I'm sure the accent gives it away. If you'll come with me, m'lords, I'll show you to your cabins below decks."

"What's the capital like, Captain Davos?" Bran questioned eagerly, as the three of them made their way belowdecks. Because of the lack of portholes, the interior was illuminated by tallow candles set in small brass cages.

"Not too sure anymore, lad. The _Stormchaser_ patrols the coastline most days, and stays well in Northern waters. I've been her captain for near ten, maybe twelve years now, and I haven't been back since. Not that it's a bother, I've got my lady wife and all our squabbling brats moved up to White Harbor with me." Davos laughed.

"And how did you end up at the helm of a wolf ship, captain?" Jon tried to keep any form of scorn out of his question. He was genuinely curious to know how a man from Flea Bottom climbed to his position. Being captain of a wolf ship was a high honor, normally given to accomplished lords or lordlings. Although, with how averse many northerners were to the open sea, Jon supposed it wasn't too unlikely an outsider could hold the post.

"I worked for years as a - ah, merchant, in King's Landing. During Rhaegar's Dance, I was pressed-ganged into the crew for a dromond in one of the Mad King's loyalist fleets. But we mutinied, and surrendered the ship to one of the enemy vessels." Davos waggled his eyebrows. "This one, in fact."

Bran stared, not willing to miss as moment of the story.

"I stayed on as a crewman under the last captain, Karlon Karstark, a tough old bastard. Long dead now, of course. After the war I moved my family up to the Harbor, and when the old Karstark croaked he named me his successor." Davos paused to scratch at his unkempt beard. "I didn't think I'd have gotten it, to be honest - one of the fat Lord Manderly's sons wanted the command, despite the fact that neither of them can sail for shit. But luckily, an old friend of mine was captain of another wolf ship, and he backed me for the post."

Davos stopped and opened the door to a modest looking, but amply spacious cabin. "I suppose that's my story all told, not that interesting after all, eh? Ah, this will be your room, m'lord. The boy's will be right down the hall."

Jon stepped in, thanking the older man before examining his surroundings. "I'll only be sailing with you part of the way, the rest I'll trail you on dragonback. Amattugr and I will meet you at King's Landing when you disembark."

Davos nodded. "Of course." He then lead Bran towards his own room, their voices trailing in the hall behind them.

"I want to hear more about when you sailed in the Second Dance! Did you fight any of the Bloodwyrms?"

"I never saw any dragons in battle, boy. If I had I most definitely would not be here right now."

Jon looked around the room, noting the cleanliness of floors and sparse furniture. Davos ran a tight ship. He had no luggage, leaving most everything in the saddlebags on Amattgur.

He laid down in the small cot, closing his eyes briefly and enjoying the renewed silence. He realized now that life outside of Skagos was going to be much more loud and boisterous than he had expected, so he would have to cherish these quiet moments as he got them. His mind eventually shifted to Val, and just the thought of her stung.

They'd only first met less than a year ago, but he'd always felt it comfortably easy to connect with the fierce and beautiful Free Folk woman. And now, whatever they might've had between them had been cut off before it could even start.

Jon was hoping he could fly back on Amattugr to see her once he'd gotten things settled a bit in King's Landing, but based on the size of the task detailed to him by his lord uncle in that first gods-damned letter, he knew that to be merely wishful thinking.

A knock at his cabin door shook Jon back to reality. It would seem that there was to be no uninterrupted rest for him on this day. Jon clambered out of his cot and fixed a glare onto his face.

He was badly in need of a nap, and whatever it was could damn well _wait._

Jon yanked open the door and saw a stomach. And then looked up and saw that the stomach was connected to a chest the size of a cartwheel, which in turn was connected to a head. The man was so massive he had to crouch to fit through the door of the cabin.

Unlike his father, Toregg the Tall kept himself clean shaven, and had fiery red hair cut short. Jon thought that the man had to be over seven feet tall. The big Free Folk man kneeled down in the cabin, nearly taking up all of the standing space by doing so. He offered at Jon's feet a knight's standard steel arming sword, which looked more like a dagger in his fists, laying atop a massive bronze battleaxe.

"Jon Stark, son of Lyanna Stark, blood of Rickard Stark, Lord of Stone and Scale. I offer you my blades to command and I vow to shield your back and give my life for yours if the day ever comes to be. This I swear by blood and by steel, by ice and by stone, under witness of the old gods and the new."

Jon looked at the man kneeling before him, trying to connect this giant to the memory of a thin, twiggy red-haired boy only slightly older than he and Robb, who they had played with in the great hall of Kingshouse.

"I vow that you shall always have a place by my hearth, meat and mead at my table, and I vow that I shall never ask you of any action that would bring upon you dishonor. This I swear by sea and by sky, by bronze and by iron, by the old gods and the new.

This I swear by ice and fire."

There was silence, where Jon could almost convince himself that he felt the very eyes of the gods in this tiny ship's cabin, and world seemed to pause for a moment.

"Now come on, get up already," He grunted, wrapping his arm under one beefy elbow in a futile attempt to lift up the big warrior. "Your father would smack us both silly if he saw us like this right now."


End file.
